Cell 62
by deadpoolhulk
Summary: a short story of one of one of Silent Hill's victims. set before the town was abandoned, a man is taken in for a crime he did not commit. but as we all know, silent hills prisons are not nice places...


Cell Sixty-two

o.k. so this is a short story set before Silent hill was abandoned. I figure creepy deaths always went down in the town and this is just one of them.

The consequences of this night would be two people dead on the same street. One would be the result of a murder, the other of the results of a wrongful arrest. The second man was called Fred, he was tall, thin and innocent of the crimes that he would be charged with. On this night he was walking home when he heard a horrific scream coming from a dark alleyway. He ran to find his neighbour lying dead amongst the rubbish on the floor. The body was unrecognisable because its head was missing. Standing over the body was a short man holding a blood-soaked knife, before Fred could run the man it him in the head with the handle of the knife, knocking him unconscious.

When Fred woke he slowly got to his feet, only to see a police car pulling up. Fred realised that the murder weapon was in his hand, he tried to throw it into the shadows before the policeman saw it, but it was too late, the officer jumped out of the car and arrested him. Fred's attempts to claim he was innocent were ignored as he was roughly pushed onto the back seat of the police car.

A few months later Fred was stunned to see the judge sitting in court, it was the short man from that terrible night.

Fred cried "That's him, the judge, he's the killer!"

"Silence!" shouted the short man, "if you disrupt this courtroom again I'll have you sent to your cell." Fred knew he had no choice but to keep quiet and listen.

Standing in the witness box, Fred pleaded with the jury that he was innocent, but each time he tried to tell them the truth, the judge spoke over him.

"It's him, he's the killer," repeated Fred.

"This man is out of his mind," said the judge, "he's trying to blame anyone but himself."

After the jury had found Fred guilty, the judge condemned him to life in prison. Fred began to weep, no one believed him, he was powerless, he was alone. He was dragged down to the police van and immediately driven away to prison.

At the prison two of the wardens seemed to be arguing about where they should put him.

"You know what happened in that cell before," said the first warden, "I'm not putting him in there."

"He's a murderer," said the second, "and anyway, I don't believe those silly rumours about …well, you know."

They looked at each other seriously, Fred's fear began to increase even more.

"Oh well," said the first warden, "it's the only cell that's empty, I suppose we haven't got any choice."

They pushed Fred down a gloomy hall towards cell sixty-two. The air seemed to get colder as they approached it, they could see their breath swirling in the air before them.

The door clanged shut behind him, Fred stood shaking in the tiny cell. He looked around and could see nothing unusual, he sat on the bed and tried to pull himself together.

After a couple of hours the lights went out, and in the darkness Fred smelt an old damp aroma. He tried to find the source, there was nothing, until he noticed a small dark pool of blood under his bed. It looked old but hadn't dried out, Fred shuddered, nothing seemed to make sense to him.

The next day, tired because he hadn't had any sleep, Fred tried to speak to some of the other prisoners. But they all kept their distance, no one wanted to come near him, it was as if he was marked in some way. He kept seeing them watching him, but as soon as he looked at them, they quickly turned away. Eventually one old man leant close to him.

"You're in room sixty-two aren't you?" he asked.

Fred nodded, relieved that someone was treating him like a human being.

"Yes," answered Fred, "it doesn't feel right at all."

The old man nodded knowingly, and in a low voice he began to explain.

"There was once a fight between two cellmates," he said, "one of them was killed. The following night everyone on the wing heard the survivor of the fight screaming out "But you're dead, you're dead". The voice suddenly stopped, and the next morning the wardens found him brutally murdered, with the words "YOU'RE DEAD" written on the wall in blood; his blood."

Fred's hands shook with fear, now he understood. For the rest of the day he sat nervously alone in his cell, imagining the awful history of this room. Through his window he watched the last few hours of daylight slowly fade away, as the darkness crept into the room, terror crept into his heart.

Eventually the lights were switched off in all the cells, and the inmates began to try and sleep through another night. Fred lay awake on his bunk, staring at the blank ceiling, his ears trained for every hint of sound, he felt sick with dread.

Around the city clocks struck three a.m., free people everywhere were dreaming their happy dreams, but in the prison men lay counting away the hours. Suddenly the silence was shattered by an unearthly wail,

"But I'm innocent, I'm innocent, you're dead!


End file.
